Saturday, 22 March 2014

"There She Goes, My Beautiful World" - Nick Cave

The feeling of utter inadequacy as a writer is, apparently, a stereotypical thing. I suppose it is the same with any art. That being said, I am trying to explore the reasons why the feeling is so great (more than just that of depression or BPD). It all stems from insecurity and vulnerability, that much is obvious; but what exactly is it that makes me feel so insecure about the title 'Writer'?

I have already touched upon my (lack of) linguistic skills, my imperfections with grammar and, if there wasn't an online dictionary, quite frankly, it would be spelling too. But, when I think about the title, as always, there is a romanticised version in my head of what a writer should be, and I am not it. I'm sure this writer exists, either in real life or in some fictitious land but in order to actually write as I do now, I could never be that particular kind of writer. It would be just another role I was playing.

One of the necessities that a writer must have is a vast knowledge of other literature, apparently. Reading is tantamount to breathing. I adore reading, I love seeing different writing styles and how much that can tell you about someone. I enjoy seeing how people choose to express themselves though their words. See, I envision many writers find inspiration from parts of literature that they identify with, even emulate authors they admire in homage to their particular greats, but I can't do that. I am a sponge.

I am a sponge of unacceptable levels. It isn't because I don't have my own ideas or that the other writers are better than me (which they mostly are, but that is the insecurity kicking in again), I think it's because of my BPD. I know that it is because of this illness that I have felt so lost my entire life, never knowing who I was or why I wasn't like everyone else. This in turn, caused me to adopt bits of people's personalities that I liked, I was a chameleon because I had to be to survive. We are a product of the people who touch our lives but this is a whole new level, I had no idea who I was so I made someone up to be. This subconsciously seeps in through my writing, I can specifically pinpoint the times I have read something that has completely changed my writing style, so it isn't my true voice that I'm writing with.

In order to keep myself as pure as possible, not only to know who I was as a person but to know my true voice as a writer too, I needed to cut down on my reading. Bare minimum. It pains me and gives me license to scold myself, to berate myself on my impotence. It confirms that I am no more than a vomitorium of discarded words and broken sentences.

They say you suffer for your art.

I am a writer who cannot read.